The Tobacco Lords Trilogy

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  The sun’s long fingers rainbowed through the stained glass windows patchily illuminating the gloomy interior of the church.

  Mr Blackadder was waiting in front of the pulpit. He looked taller and thinner than usual in his new blue coat and breeches, white silk stockings and buckled shoes. He wore a tie-wig well powdered and carried his three cornered hat primly under one arm. Staring solemnly round at Annabella, he seemed to her more like an undertaker viewing a corpse than a bridegroom gazing on his bride. Not that she appeared a picture of happiness herself. To her this was more of a funeral than a wedding. Her life was ending. It was about to be buried with her freedom. Yet, liveliness refused to fizzle out. She had an almost irrepressible desire to poke her tongue out at Mr Blackadder, to do something, anything, to shock him and the tightly packed jostling congregation behind them. Long-faced idiot, she thought, giving her intended husband a stare prickling with impertinence before they separated to opposite corners to untie all the ribbons and knots about their persons. After being modestly surrounded and helped by her bridesmaids with this task, Annabella sauntered back.

  In front of Mr Blackadder and Annabella waited the Reverend Mr Gillespie, hands clasped on top of fat belly, eyes patiently resting heavenwards. He performed the marriage ceremony like that, said the prayer, gave the exhortation and the benediction. Then the bride and groom again retired to separate corners this time to tie all their knots before leaving the church at the head of the procession led by the piper playing She’s wooed and married and a’.

  They crossed the street and crushed through the archway alongside the Halyburton warerooms and into the close at the back. Then up the stairs everyone squashed and hustled until the Halyburtons’ door was reached. There they stopped to watch the bridesmaid and bridesman break an oaten cake over the bride’s head before distributing the pieces among the company. Pieces of bride-cake were next thrown over the bride and bridegroom’s heads to signify prosperity. Finally a glass of whisky was handed around before they all entered the house. Once inside a bottle of whisky was passed round sun-wise and healths drunk again.

  Letitia Halyburton was proud of the fine feast she had prepared and stood at the head of the table, rigid-backed, with hands clasped beneath her long bosom as if holding it up.

  For the guests to enjoy there was roast mutton, a roast pike, legs of mutton boiled with capers and served with walnuts and melted butter, a side of beef, a dish of rabbits all smothered with onions, reindeers’ tongues, brandered chickens, cows’ udders and eyeballs, and in the middle of the table balanced a pyramid of syllabubs and jellies.

  ‘Come away in,’ Letitia ordered briskly. ‘Lift a plate off the sideboard.’ She flicked her closed fan in the appropriate direction. ‘Bride and bridegroom first. Now over to the table. This way, Mistress Blackadder. Tuts, Annabella,’ her voice sharpened. ‘You’re Mistress Blackadder. Wake up, girl.’

  Everyone laughed uproariously at Annabella forgetting her new name.

  ‘Annie, Nell, Tam,’ Letitia rapped out to servants. ‘Help the folk. Willie,’ she addressed her husband, ‘cut the meat.’

  Soon everyone was milling and squashing and chatting round the table and fast demolishing all the food it held.

  Letitia found a plate for herself and cleared a path to what was left of the meal by striking everyone before her a sharp blow with her fan.

  ‘Aye, Mistress Blackadder,’ she said, finding herself next to Annabella. ‘That’s taken the wind out your sails.’

  Annabella stared at the older woman who was busying herself heaping a plate with food.

  ‘What has, Mistress Halyburton?’

  ‘Getting married, of course.’

  Annabella laughed.

  ‘Losh and lovenendie, you are very mistaken if you think marriage has made any difference to me. I feel the same today as I did yesterday. I do assure you of that.’

  ‘We’ll see how perjink you are tomorrow, mistress.’

  ‘You mean after I’m bedded?’ Annabella gave another trill of merriment. ‘I am intrigued by your line of thought, Mistress Halyburton. Can it be that you do not know I have been bedded a prodigious number of times before? To know a man is no new thing for me.’

  ‘Tuts, Annabella! Have you no shame? Hold your tongue! Someone might hear you.’

  Annabella prettily pouted her lips over a spoon so that she could suck in creamy syllabub. Then she said,

  ‘There’s scarce a young woman in this town by the time she has been taught to spin but has also learned some houghmagandie. Why not be honest about it?’

  ‘You make the mistake, Mistress Blackadder, of judging everyone like yourself.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks, Mistress Halyburton. I’m perfectly aware that no other woman could compete with me. Ask any man!’

  Letitia’s sallow face flushed a dark maroon.

  ‘You are a shameless strumpet, mistress, and if it wasn’t for your father’s sake and the fact that our families are related by business and marriage, you would never be allowed to crack an egg in this house.’

  Annabella shrugged and sauntered away, apparently enjoying her syllabub. In actual fact she felt sick but she would rather be damned than let anyone know it. Her bleeding was now over two weeks late and such a thing had never happened before. She must surely be pregnant. Conscience as well as her general malaise now bothered her. She did not care an oatcake for Mr Blackadder, yet his innocence of her condition made her feel guilty.

  Not that her condition was her fault. Thinking of the man responsible fevered her with such fury and bitterness she could barely conceal her agitation.

  It was a relief and a cover of sorts when the dancing time came and everyone spilled out of the house, down the stairs and out onto Trongate Street. At least there was no need for conversation then and her flushes of distress could pass for the heat of the dance.

  To the sound of the pipes, she and Mr Blackadder led off the first reel and everyone joined in with much laughing and screeching and rumbustious good spirits. Annabella flung herself into the merrymaking with a wildness that eventually became a worry to her sister-in-law Phemy. The little pock-face creased as if in pain.

  ‘Annabella, you have me quite fluttered. Are you well?’

  ‘Dear Phemy, you are always seeking someone to concern yourself with. But have no fears for me. I am having a prodigiously magnificent time.’

  The Reverend Mr Blackadder was having a grand time too. Normally he frowned on the frivolity of dancing but as it was his wedding day he had rashly decided to throw all caution to the winds and was prancing and leaping about like a long-limbed horse.

  He had obviously practised unusual restraint in his drinking, however. Normally before an evening’s carousal had finished, he was incapable of standing up. He either slipped quietly underneath his host’s table and into a deep slumber or he was carried home by servants.

  This wedding night had reduced him to a state of hiccoughing inebriation but he was not helpless. Bottles of whisky kept being pressed upon him, only to be eased aside by a cautious and surprisingly steady hand.

  He was still on his feet when the night ended. Dancing and kicking up his heels he led the multitude of guests and townspeople to his house in the Briggait. At the entrance he stopped, and to the encouraging cheers and shouts of the onlookers, he managed to lift Annabella into his arms and stagger over the threshold. The door shut leaving them in total darkness.

  ‘Put me down, sir,’ Annabella said. ‘Get a lantern from somebody before they all go away.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Aye.’ He fumbled with the door and managed to swing it open and call out, ‘Willie Tampson, where do you think you’re going with that lanthorn? Hand it ower, man. It’s as black as sin in here.’

  The lantern’s yellow light wibble-wobbled over the inside stair and, through the open doorway of the kitchen on the right, Annabella caught glimpses of a dresser. On it pewter plates winked. Two chairs and a table flickered beside an inglenook fire. From a ceiling beam
dangled a string of onions and a large ham. Mr Blackadder said,

  ‘There’s plenty of space in the kitchen and this bit lobby for the servants. Oor room’s upstairs.’

  He led the way unsteadily but with great concentration. Annabella had to gather up her skirts, carry them over one arm and manoeuvre her hoops sideways, the stairs were so narrow. There were two bedrooms, one on the first landing and another attic room up another rickety flight of stairs. They entered the first room which had oak wainscoting and a ceiling painted with coloured shapes like fruit. It was of decent proportions as far as Annabella could discern by the feeble light of the lantern. It contained a hole-in-the-wall bed draped with dusty brown material, a table in the centre of the floor, a bookcase with leaded glass doors, a mahogany lowboy, a grandfather clock in the corner, and some chairs.

  Without a word, Annabella undressed and climbed into bed. Mr Blackadder’s fumbling fingers took longer. After much pitching and rolling like a ship on a stormy sea, he won a battle with his nightshirt, then sank onto his knees at the side of the bed.

  ‘Gracious heavens, what are you doing now?’ Annabella groaned.

  ‘Just saying my prayers.’

  ‘Which one, sir? For what I am about to receive, the Lord make me truly thankful?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Mr Blackadder, climbing into bed. ‘Maybe so, maybe so.’

  Annabella stiffened her body and closed her eyes. She refused to give in to tears and later, amazed at her husband’s energy, she had no strength to do anything but sleep.

  11

  ‘YOU may call me Erchie, noo,’ the Reverend Blackadder informed Annabella but she greeted the news with neither interest nor enthusiasm.

  ‘I am entertaining cummers today, sir. Must you sit in this room?’

  ‘I’ve my sermon to prepare. God’s word can’t be neglected, Annabella.’

  ‘His word would be none the worse off being attended to upstairs in the attic. Or in the tavern, for that matter. Other men do their business there.’

  She tweaked at the new bed drapes then smoothed a hand down their velvety richness.

  ‘You’ve an unfortunate way of putting things, lassie. A verra unfortunate …’

  ‘In the church, then,’ Annabella interrupted impatiently. ‘Do not ruffle me, Mr Blackadder. Griselle and Phemy are coming and we’ve servant and household problems to discuss. You will be a prodigious nuisance.’

  Mr Blackadder reared up as if to take offence but, remembering Annabella’s splendid condition, he eased himself back down again. The thought of having a son or daughter with Annabella’s comely appearance and his own excellent character secretly delighted him. In this connection he was forever sending prayers of gratitude winging upwards.

  ‘You’re premature in your thanks, Mr Blackadder,’ Annabella told him. ‘The child could have my character and your looks.’

  But the minister remained undaunted.

  ‘Uh-huh, there’s nothing wrong with the attic, I dare say. I’ll just go up there for a wee while.’

  ‘You’ll be nearer the source of your inspiration,’ Annabella flung at him as he passed clutching his big Bible, his quill pen and some papers.

  He turned at the door to eye her sternly.

  ‘Uh-huh, many a true word is spoken in jest, mistress.’

  She rolled her eyes at his retreating back before plumping up the embroidered cushions on each chair. Then she tenderly unpacked her china teacups and saucers from the kist under the bed. As delicate as eggshells, they were painted with a few little strokes from which hung pink cherry blossom. She had other even finer china which had rice grains and flower patterns inset round the cups and if you held one up the light could easily be seen to shine through. But on this occasion she decided to use the painted cherry blossom set. Hesitating between the table in the middle of the floor and the smaller side table over in the corner, she eventually spread a snowy linen cloth on the large table. Each corner of the cloth had an embroidered cluster of pink roses and a festoon of ribbon a similar blue to the velvet curtains. She had stitched the embroidery herself and felt a glow of pride when she gazed at it. Even Letitia had grudgingly admitted that she was good with a needle. Carefully she arranged the cups and saucers and plates on the table. Then from the lowboy she fetched a cake and placed it in the centre of the table. It glistened black as coal with fruit and filled the nostrils with its spicy aroma. Next came a plate of sugar biscuits with the crunchy crystals quivering and winking in the light of the fire. The firelight also danced in the silver of the teapot and sugar and cream dishes her father had given her as a wedding present.

  Annabella sighed with satisfaction as she surveyed the scene. The burning logs gave a cosy red glow to the room, accentuating the blue sheen of the curtains, the sparkling white of the table cloth and the lustre of the dishes.

  Overcome with delight, she clapped her hands in admiration of the scene. Then she sang out,

  ‘Nancy! Nancy!’

  ‘I’m not deaf,’ Nancy grumbled when she arrived upstairs from the kitchen. ‘There’s no need to raise the roof.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to be in such a monstrous black mood. Haven’t I told you I’m arranging for more help in the house. Griselle and Phemy have word of someone. They are coming this afternoon. So you’d better hurry and get the tea made. They’ll be here any minute. Nancy!’ She summoned the maid back again and swirled round and round making her white muslin dress flutter out like butterfly wings. ‘Do I still look prodigiously beautiful? My hateful condition is not in any way apparent, is it?’

  ‘With these hoops how could your swollen belly be seen? Anyway, why do you worry? Everyone knows your condition and the minister for one is as pleased as punch.’

  ‘Pox on the minister. I do not care what he thinks.’

  She was wearing a satin petticoat of sky-blue under her gown and a blue ribbon to match was fastened round her throat with a neat bow in front. Her hair was drawn back in curls and there was a glow to her face that made her look even more beautiful than usual.

  ‘So many women,’ she said, ‘let themselves go to wreck and ruin until they look like monstrous frumps when they are enceinte. I refuse to allow any man to reduce me to such a pitiable state.’

  ‘You look all right. I’m away to make the tea.’

  After Nancy disappeared Annabella glanced around the room again. The colour of the curtains was picked out in the paintings of fruit and other designs on the ceiling beams. The walls were panelled with oak wood, a shade darker than the lowboy, and the gold lettered books in the bookcase added a special richness to the place. She was tolerably well satisfied with the house, except that it needed more servants in it to cook and clean. Nancy insisted that she was supposed to be her personal maid and should not be wasting time with so much cooking and house cleaning. This was true enough, but efficient servants were not so easily come by. Nor were they over anxious to be employed in a minister’s household. Their lives were joyless enough on a Sunday without living under the eagle eye of the minister every day of the week. This Annabella could understand. Sunday had always been bad enough in her father’s house but since she had been married it was purgatory.

  She had done everything to try and escape from it without success. Only last week she had tried to escape in sleep during her husband’s long, long sermon, but although the minister had not noticed her, he had spied another sleepy member of the congregation and wakened the offender by calling to him,

  ‘Andy McKay, you are sleepin’. I insist on your waking when God’s word is preached to ye!’

  Andy McKay had called back,

  ‘Look at your ain seat, minister, and you’ll see a sleeper forby me.’

  And he’d pointed to the minister’s pew where she was dozing wrapped snugly in her cape with its hood pulled well forward over her face.

  ‘Mistress Blackadder,’ the minister had called out loudly, making her jerk. ‘Stand up!’

  She felt furious. It was quite a
common occurrence, she knew, for members of the congregation to be commanded to stand up in public and receive censure for some offence or other, but how dare he humiliate her. For a long minute she struggled between remaining seated and indulging in a public battle of wits or standing and being done with the situation as quickly as possible. One was as bad as the other. Eventually she stood up, trying to convey to him by furious meaningful looks that she would wreak her revenge on him later.

  He leaned forward on the high pulpit, arms across the Bible, face stern.

  ‘Mistress Blackadder, everybody kens you’re nae angel. But even angels would have mair sense than to shut their eyes and lugs to God’s word. We’ll have a hymn noo and we’ll a’ sing with a’ oor might and see if that’ll help ye to wake up and pay attention.’ He strained over the edge of the pulpit to where the precentor sat at a desk underneath. ‘Dauvit, stop your snuffin’ and sneezing. Put away that snuffbox and attend to your business.’

  The snuffbox snapped shut. There was the dirl of the ‘pitchfork’ on the book-board and old Dauvit began bellowing out lines for the congregation to repeat after him.

  Normally this was the only diversion of the long dreary imprisonment in the church because Dauvit made many mistakes, both in words and tune, and many a surreptitious giggle he had provided for her. On this occasion, however, she was still scarlet-faced and fuming at the minister and hardly noticed Dauvit and the congregation’s unfortunate rendering of the line ‘And for His sheep He doth us take’ as:

  ‘And for His sheep He’d

  And for His sheep He’d

  And for His sheep He’d

  -oth us take.’

  But later, despite anger still fizzling inside her, she could not control a twitching of the lips when the precentor, faithfully followed by the multitude, exclaimed: